


Behind the Music: Billy and the Boys, Or A Petition for Power Ballads

by wingedbears



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: 1980s, Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Billy Hargrove Needs a Hug, Billy is an asshole, Drunk Driving, F/F, Gratuitous 80s references, I feel that goes without saying, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Internalized Homophobia, Lead Singer Billy, M/M, Manager Steve, Oblivious, Original Character Death(s), Parental Steve Harrington, Pining, Rating will change, Slow Burn, but he's like GRADE A asshole here
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-30
Updated: 2020-11-28
Packaged: 2021-01-12 22:08:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21233333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wingedbears/pseuds/wingedbears
Summary: The year is 1986. Billy Hargrove, lead singer of the band Billy and the Boys, has just been released from court appointed rehab. Dropping out of the charts and desperate to get back in the studio and back on tour in a fear of losing his fame, Billy has to rely on his manager, Steve Harrington.Problem is, Steve has some crazy ideas.Steve Harrington just wants the best for Billy, for the band. Because that's what a good manager does. If Steve is in love with Billy, then who's to know?





	1. Chapter 1

“ — And Billy and the Boys lead singer and pianist, Billy Hargrove, says he’s eager to be back in the recording studio with producer Jonathon Byers to lay down some new tracks. Billy says he’s ready to record and wants to tour. If everything goes to plan, Billy and the Boys will be on the road sometime next spring.”

-_Nina Blackwood, Entertainment Tonight’s Weekly Rock Report, January 10th, 1986_

Billy’s been out of rehab for eight days. That means he’s been sober for twenty eight days.

Without alcohol, he can’t self medicate, which means he has to deal with bullshit like Tommy whining about his fucking guitar again.

“The music’s off, Steve!” Tommy is yelling into the mic. “I have to tune it, or the song is all wrong!”

Billy looks at Steve, who has a flat look on his face, in the recording booth. 

Steve presses the speaker button. “Then fucking tune it, Tommy. We’re wasting good studio time.”

Billy, not for the first time today, wants a drink. His bandmates are all assholes, openly drinking in the studio, uncaring about Billy’s new sober status.

Okay, the rehab and sobriety was court-ordered, but still.

Kyle aimlessly taps his sticks on the drums. “Can you still have coke?” he asks.

Billy rolls his eyes. “No, Kyle. I’m sober. No drugs, no drinks.”

“Not even weed?” Robbie asks, looking affronted. He adjusts the jet black bass strapped on his shoulder. 

Billy wants to pick up his keyboard (he staunchly refuses to get a keytar because “We’re not some asinine pop band,”) and throw it at the both of them.

“‘Kay, I’m ready,” Tommy announces.

“Take it from the top,” Steve says, and the sound engineer, Brian, rewinds the tape, gives the signal, and Billy starts on the keyboard. His fingers are splayed on the keys, playing the chords perfectly, and Tommy’s guitar kicks in. 

“Nobody gonna blow me away,” Billy sings into the mic. “No matter what they say.”

Kyle comes in half a beat late, and Robbie strikes the wrong chord.

Billy slams his palms down on the keys, a discordant noise echoing. “Goddammit!” He turns to glare at Kyle and Robbie.

“Okay, let’s break for five,” Steve’s voice says over the speaker.

Billy throws his arms, stomping outside the studio, drawing out a cigarette. He lights it, watching as the rest of the group walks past him to get to the building’s exit. They glare at each other, except Tommy, who seems oblivious.

He’s stubbing out his first out his first cigarette on the bottom of his boots and pulling another out when Steve comes out of the booth. Steve looks tired.

“This sucks,” Billy says.

“You’re really not supposed to smoke out here,” Steve says, tugging his own half-empty pack from his shirt pocket and lighting up.

“This is my last vice,” Billy says, holding up the cigarette. “That and girls.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “Come into the booth, I wanna talk to you.”

They open the door, and Brian looks up from rewinding the tape. “We could splice it,” he suggests.

Billy knows that the best way to record an album is to splice it. But Goddamn, the entire time from the half canceled tour, to all the time in rehab, his band should be able to play one song. One single. “No,” says, furious. “We do it right, so we can get back on tour and not fucking mess up on stage.” Sure, Billy might be called a high maintenance bitch by Robbie and Kyle, but he has standards, okay?

Brian raises an eyebrow in agreement.

“Hey dude, I gotta talk to Billy in private for a minute, do you mind peacing out for three minutes?”

“Not at all,” Brian drawls. He gets up from his chair with a grunt and walks out.

Steve crosses his arms, studying Billy for a moment. He ashes his Newport (Billy is exasperated that he takes serious suggestions from a guy that smokes Newports) in a tray next to the sound board. “I have an idea,” Steve says slowly.

“Yeah?” Billy takes a drag, blows smoke in Steve’s face, just so he can watch as Steve’s eyes squint and his lips curl down. 

Steve wafts it away as Billy smirks. “It’s not gonna be your favorite,” Steve continues. 

“Spit it out, Harrington.”

“I was thinking that Kyle and Robbie could be replaced.”

Billy’s first instinct is to be angry. “You wanna break up the band?”

Steve takes a long pull, then points at Billy. “You’re the name, you’re the sex appeal, and frankly, you and Tommy are the talent.”

Billy frowns. The band has been together since the beginning. Alright, Kyle was a temp, and Robbie worked on the last album because Luke quit. 

Only he and Tommy were really the beginning. And Mack.

“We’ve gotta record this song, Steve,” Billy says. “We’ve pushed it back too far.” _Because of me_, goes unsaid.

“I have some people in mind, actually,” Steve says, shifting his long legs to cross them at the ankles. 

Billy squints at him. “How long have you been planning this?”

Steve shrugs. “Since court, really.”

Billy sucks hard on his next draw, bringing that painful scratching in his throat and lungs. He doesn’t want to think about Mack, bloody and glassy eyed in the passenger seat, Billy screaming for him to wake up.

“It’ll make me look like a princess,” Billy counters, pushing the pain down, taking another long pull, letting his fingers get close to the embers, feeling the fire.

“You’re a known perfectionist,” Steve says, shrugging. “They’re not gonna satisfy you, Billy. Robbie never has, and we don’t know Kyle, other than he comes in half a beat late or early.”

“Still not in love with the idea,” Billy says.

“What if we did a practice run before we fire the guys? Just you and the new people, see how it feels and sounds.”

Billy frowns. Steve’s thought this out, and is presenting an idea that Billy both hates and loves. 

But that’s why Steve’s his manager. 

“Fine,” Billy sighs. “But only one time,” he lifts index finger of left hand, “and if they mess up even once, they’re out.”

Steve scoffs, laughing. “If you held the same standards to your own band, Ronnie and Kyle would’ve been out a long time ago.”

“Maybe I’m temperamental,” Billy says, running a pointed tongue along his bottom lip, smiling.

Steve opens his mouth to reply, but the door clicks open and Brian pops his head in. “Five minutes are up, Steve-o, go grab the boys.”

Steve nods, turns to Billy. “Give me two weeks,” he says. “Thursday, one p.m.”

“One week, same time,” Billy pushes.

Steve tightens his mouth, annoyed.

A small rush goes through Billy to see Steve affected. 

“Fine,” Steve spits out, stubbing his cigarette butt in the ashtray. He stalks out of the booth.

Billy pulls one more drag before dropping the dead cig in the tray next to Steve’s. Wisps of smoke trial from both of them, dancing in the stale air. “Back to work,” he mutters.

“Hey man,” Brian interrupts, “I’m paid by the hour. I’m more than happy to push some buttons for Billy and the Boys.”

“Shut up, Brian,” Billy says, and slams the door to the booth on the way out. 

“Fucking girls?!” Billy shouts one week later in the same booth.

Steve holds his palms up in defense. It only makes Billy more mad. “Billy —” he says, stepping forward. 

“The band is called Billy and the _Boys_, Harrington! What’s next, power ballads?” Billy asks. Seriously, _girls_?

“They’re the best, Billy. Give them a chance.”

Billy crosses his arms and sneers. “If they’re the best why haven’t I heard about them?”

“What do you think they’re talking about?” the girl with the sparkly, purple bass asks. She plucks the strings, E, A, D, G. She blows a bright pink bubble of gum, pops it and twirls it back in her mouth. Her hair is teased to the ceiling practically, her makeup garish and heavy, her voice valley-girlish.

“I don’t think we’re what he was expecting,” the redhead with granny glasses drawls, deadpan. She taps the snare, listening. “God, this set is so out of tune.”

“Should’ve brought your kit,” Valley Girl says.

“You wanna lug around a hundred pounds of musical equipment, be my guest,” Granny Glasses replies.

“You’re the best and I found you in a dive bar in L.A.,” Steve says, drawing Billy’s attention back to him.

“I had a reputation at that point!” Billy shouts.

“Yeah, a rep for being an asshole.” Steve vaguely gestures to all of Billy. “Look, one hour, okay?” Steve says, loudly and slowly like Billy’s a child.

Billy rolls his eyes. “No. No fucking way am I practicing with Granny Glasses and Valley Girl.”

“It’s Barb and Carol,” Steve shoots back, his voice sharp. “And you’re gonna do it, Billy.”

Billy drops his arms and steps into Steve’s space, getting close enough to smell expensive cologne. He cocks his head, breathing heavily through his nose. “You can’t make me, Harrington,” he says, muscles tensed for a fight.

Valley Girl shouts “Hey, the instruments are getting out of tune while you two squabble. We getting started?”

“Go ahead,” Billy says, sweeping his hand over the sound board, “tell them.” Daring Steve to do it. 

Steve looks at him, judging, weighing, considering. He’s always so damn careful, and Billy hates it. Steve presses the speaker button. “Could you play “Heart Attack” for us?” he asks calmly. 

Billy turns and punches the wall, and all it does is make an unsatisfying thump and hurt his knuckles.

Carol and Granny Glasses (Billy might as well call her that because Barb is just as bad) look at each other and shrug.

Granny Glasses counts it off. “One, two, three, four!” she shouts, hitting her sticks together. 

Carol starts the bass, both of them keeping perfect time.

Glasses comes in on the beat. “Girl,” she sings, “When I lay you down, gonna let me go downtown, let me hear the sound of your scream!” Her voice is low and rough, like Pat Benatar after five cigarettes. The bounce of her tits is nice too.

Carol stops the bass, and keeps bobbing her head to the rhythm of the beat. It’s the guitar solo, and then Billy would come in on the keyboard.

“On your back,” they sing in harmony. “Gonna give a heart attack.”

They repeat the chorus and then Carol picks up the bass again for the bridge.

“Honey you make me wanna —” they croon, and Billy’s stomach starts to sink. Because Steve may have been right.

“Make me wanna — make me wanna, baby I’m gonna die!”

They run through the rest of the song perfectly, note for note, til the end, shouting, “Heart attack!”

Steve slowly turns to face Billy, incredibly smug.

“I hate you,” Billy says flatly.

Steve smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling.

Billy’s stomach tightens, most likely at the prospect of changing the band name. Like he’s fucking John Cougar Mellancamp.

Billy stomps out of the booth and into the studio, glaring at the girls.

“Well?” Barb asks, like she’s bored.

“Let’s run through ‘Stickshift’,” he says in lieu of a response.

Granny Glasses rolls her eyes but counts it off anyway.

They get to the first repeat of the chorus (“Put it in reverse, we gonna rehearse what we did in the verse. Now put it in drive, honey make me feel alive, what it feels like when you cry — stickshift!) when Billy stops.

He holds up his hands. The girls stop, Carol tamping the bass and Barb stills the cymbals. He palms his face. “Harrington, get in here!”

Steve walks in at his leisure. “Carol, Barb, I’d like to formally introduce you to Billy Hargrove. Billy, Carol Carter and Barb Holland,” he says.

“We in or what,” Carol says bluntly, popping her gum again.

Billy is reluctantly impressed that she could sing with that in her mouth. “Maybe. On one condition,” Billy says firmly.

“Oh, fun,” Barb says, her face twisted up like she’s drank fresh squeezed lemon juice.

“No power ballads.”

“Don’t listen to him,” Steve waves it off. “If you write a one, send it to me. They make the most money; stay on the charts longer.”

If looks could kill.

Barb stands, sticks still in hands. “I have a question,” she says. “Could you accept songs not about Billy’s dick?”

“Yes,” Steve sighs, relieved.

“You’ve been in the studio for one minute, Granny Glasses,” Billy snaps. “I’ll be more than happy to replace you.”

Barb curls up her upper lip and crosses her arms, pushing her tits up higher. “Alright, drummers don’t actually blow up into green goop like in _This Is Spinal Tap_.”

Billy turns his killing focus on her, stepping close.

She scathingly gives him a once over. “Although I guess your temperament and ego go up to eleven.”

“So does my dick,” Billy spits.

“Okay let’s cool it,” Steve says. “Thanks ladies, I’ll call you,” Steve says over his shoulder, herding Billy into the booth with a tight grip on Billy’s favorite shirt.

Steve shoves him and slams the door shut. “What the hell, man?”

“I don’t like her,” Billy points through the glass at Barb.

Steve runs a hand through his hair. “Billy,” he sighs. “You don’t like anyone. Maybe Tommy sometimes.” He furrows his brow, thinking. “Regardless, she’s better than Kyle.”

“Anyone can be better than Kyle!” Billy throws his hands up. “Anyone can keep time and hit things with sticks.” Billy doesn’t think about Mack. He slumps into Brian’s chair. 

“Okay, then keep Kyle,” Steve shrugs.

“Sophie’s Choice,” Billy mutters. 

“You watched that movie?” Steve blinks. 

“Nah,” Billy admits, “Just know the phrase.”

“Alright,” Steve says, leaning over Billy, the scent of smoke and citrus wafting up. “Listen.” He presses play on the rewound tape.

It’s ‘Stickshift’, and the girls still in the studio, listening to the playback. 

Billy listens for anything, one note to call the whole thing off. But it never comes. They’re good. They sound good together, and once they get Tommy in there? Billy’s spine tingles in anticipation.

The girls look at Billy, hopeful and questioning looks on their faces. 

Billy presses the stop button on the tape, then the intercom. “I gotta run it by Tommy,” he says. “But yeah, you’re in.”

Carol squeals, jumping up and down, arms raised and hopping over to give Barb a hug. 

Barb’s smile drops her whole sullen demeanor, looking like sunshine as she hugs Carol back.

But that doesn’t mean Billy likes her.


	2. Chapter 2

“Hello again, and welcome to American Top Forty. My name is Casey Kasem, and we’re about to count down the forty biggest hits of the USA. These are the records you’re buying and radio stations are playing all over America this week, according to the official survey by Billboard magazine.

“Now, here come this week’s forty biggest hits! [Top Forty jingle plays]

“This week Robin Buckley makes her debut at number forty with ‘Lover’s Game.’

“Dropping out of the top forty to make room is ‘Heart Attack’ by Billy and the Boys. Here’s ‘Lover’s Game’ by up and coming rock star, Robin Buckley...”

-_Casey Kasem, American Top Forty, January 18, 1986_

Sober looks good on Billy.

Steve can’t help but notice the way Billy’s eyes don’t chase shadows, or go red in pent up rage. The way that Billy’s clearer, like he’s finally had someone breathe life into him.

Steve’s job is to notice all the little things. 

But what Steve notices the most, is Billy.

The way his thick fingers curl around a cigarette, the way his tongue probes his bottom lip in a waggle. The way Billy blows smoke at Steve.

Because that’s all it is. Smoke. 

Billy’s affection is real, Steve knows this, the way he listens to Steve, actually takes what Steve has to say as important. How he laughs, throat bared and in danger. When he sidles up to Steve and bumps him with a shoulder, friendly. 

Steve is honored to be one of the only people Billy trusts.

Because he worked hard for that trust.

Steve was managing another band at the time, but when he was cruising L.A.’s dive bars for a drink and a blowjob, and then he saw Billy on stage.

Billy, haloed in neon, glaring at the audience, before closing his eyes to bare his soul to a fucking bar of uncaring souls.

Steve was in love.

So he pursued Billy. Begged him to let Steve manage his band, and Billy, rough, hurt, and wary finally said yes.

Three years down the road, and Steve’s gained notoriety as the best music manager in the business.

All because of Billy. 

Steve, heart on his sleeve, ripped it off and handed it Billy a long time ago, somewhere between hello and the first tour. 

Who the hell knows what Billy’s done with it.

But sober Billy was vulnerable in a lot of ways that drunk Billy couldn’t be, and Billy was still working his way around that.

Around Barb.

Billy hated Barb for the same reason Billy hated Kyle, because Kyle and Barb weren’t Mac. Would never be Mac.

Steve liked Mac, a chaotic but friendly guy, with a wide smile and a willingness to do anything a friend asked him to do. 

But Billy’s hatred wouldn’t bring Mac back from the dead.

It’s a subject not even Tommy wants to touch.

So Steve watches as they all argue, Tommy and Carol throwing unsubtle “come fuck me” eyes at each other during another session. 

Watches and waits for things to cool off. 

Jonathan Byers sits next to him in the booth, lights up a cigarette because Brian’s not there. 

“Do we need to intervene?” Jonathan asks softly.

“In a minute,” Steve says.

Jonathan shrugs, hunched in on himself. He idly watches as Billy points angrily at Barb. “Either this will get them to the top, or their gonna crash, Steve,” Jonathan says.

“It’s a risk we were willing to take,” he replies. “Didn’t Fleetwood Mac argue all the time?”

“Yeah, ‘cause they were fucking each other.” Jonathan spins his chair, arms crossed. “You going to the AMAs this year?”

Steve rubs his face. American Music Awards. Fuck, he’d totally forgot about it. There’s an invite in the in box. “Probably just have Billy and everyone go, stir some shit up.”

“Not a bad idea,” Jonathan says. “Because eventually the secret’s gonna be out.”

“We weren’t even nominated,” Steve groans.

“It’s for people like Huey Lewis,” Jonathan says. “Just get Billy to write a stupid love song, put it in the end credits of the summer blockbuster, and you’ve got yourself an award.”

“Yeah, the day that Billy writes a stupid love song, I’ll quit,” Steve jokingly threatens. It would be the day hell froze over, though. 

“Maybe Barb can, then.”

Steve looks at his watch. The last argument has been going on for ten minutes. He presses the speaker button. “Guys, get it together, we all have girlfriends to go home to,” Steve says, before pausing at Carol and Barb’s unamused faces. “Or boyfriends,” he amends. “Just, wrap it up, because I want to have an album to give the label by the end of the month.” He leans off the button.

Things are quiet for a few minutes. 

Steve listens to them set up for a new song, play it through once, twice, then ask to be recorded. 

Jonathan presses the right buttons, pushes the right sliders, gauges the right effects. 

They sound amazing, just like Steve knew they would. He smiles as Billy beams at them through the glass pane. 

Jonathan clears his throat, pointedly.

“How are things with Nancy?” Steve asks, like he didn’t two nights ago over at their house for dinner.

“Fine,” Jonathan says, drawing the word out, darting a questioning look at Steve. He looks like he wants to say more, but usually that’s Nancy’s job, coming in with the too probing look at Steve. 

Jonathan doesn’t say anything though, just reaches out and squeezes Steve’s shoulder. 

He knows. 

Jonathan knows because Nancy knows, because Steve used to wear his heart on his sleeve. 

Steve sighs, feeling like he can’t shoulder Jonathan’s pity at the same time he’s being an over glorified babysitter for rock stars. He clears his throat, rolls his shoulders back as Barb leads them to the next song, one she wrote.

It’s good, and he can tell that Billy thinks it’s good too, but is too recalcitrant to admit it. He can also tell that Billy’s trying to hear any mistakes so he can snap, can turn around and yell at someone. 

“Think they’ll make it?” Steve asks, feeling like the tawt strings of a guitar, waiting to be plucked, to make sound, for Billy, always for Billy.

“I think if they can get their heads out of their asses, they’ll take over the world. This is like nothing else I’ve worked on this year, Steve,” Jonathan says. “I mean it,” he continues, when Steve shoots him an unamused glance. “I’m not talking out of my ass, they’ve got what it takes.”

“I think so too,” Steve says softly.

“I think you should go the AMAs, too.”

Steve groans, leans his head down into his hands, awkwardly hunched in the chair. “I hate award shows.”

“It’s about good face, Steve, you know that,” Jonathan says absentmindedly, pushing a slider up. He sounds like he’s repeating something Nancy wore into him. 

“Fucking —” Steve feels all his words pile up and trip over themselves trying to get out. How he hates getting in his nice tuxedo, standing to the sideline, watching everyone eat up the limelight, when all they want is a line of coke in the bathroom. How he wishes he could shelter Billy from the probing questions everyone is going to have about his court appointed rehab. Or keep Tommy from punching Adam Curry from MTV’s face for making a crude remark about Mac, or what fucking David Letterman’s gonna say about the change over to two girls. There’s too much to bottle up, too much too contain right now for Steve to go to an awards show and stand in the shadows; gently sway his band down the red carpet. 

Jonathan doesn’t press, but he can feel like Nancy’s with them anyway, trying to nudge Steve to do the right thing. For the label. For the band. 

“Fine,” he spits out. “I’ll get my tux pressed. I’m sure the cleaners will have a field day with the dried marinara sauce on there.”

Jonathan wrinkles his nose, side eyes Steve.

“I’m joking. I cleaned it last year.”

“Last year was a month ago,” Jonathan flatly jokes.

“Yeah, what a year ‘86 is turning out to be,” Steve drawls. 

Jonathan twitches up the line of his mouth, sly. Handsome. “It’s just started,” he says.

Steve was right.

He knew as soon as he got up that morning that shouldn’t be going to the AMAs. Barb was somewhat rational, he could just ask her to take care of it, right?

Steve gets into his tuxedo anyway. Regardless of whether or not he’s in the pictures the media’s taking, he’s still the guy in the background, and he’s supposed to blend in. He gets there early, drinks from the bar, talks to some of the other band managers, some of the label execs that aren’t Nancy.

Nancy, looking beautiful and sharp in her full ballgown dress, delicately lifting her martini in a salute to him before turning to some guy.

He walks back to the red carpet and waits for his band to show up.

Barb and Carol arrive, both looking overwhelmed and bright in hastily assembled dresses that are both too Madonna and too rigid at the same time. He’s gotta get them Nancy’s stylist’s number. 

He greets both of them, guides them through the paces, where to stand, where to look, not to let the crowd get to them too much. “And have fun!” he smiles, feeling like a mom.

Judging by the way Barb and Carol smirk at him, he sounds like a mom, too.

Tommy rolls in sometime after that, already knowing his way down the carpet, smiling, or not, at the cameras in the designated spots. Talking to the live reporters like he’s the most charming bastard in the world.

Tommy may be, Steve thinks. He’s got a slow, molasses like charm to him. 

Steve wishes he could be in love with Tommy instead.

There’s a wild rush of noise at the road where the limos pull up to the carpet, and Steve, stupidly at the doors of the Shrine Temple, can hear the shouts of “Billy! Billy, over here!” from where he’s standing. 

Billy’s a warm and bright speck from where Steve is, and Steve knows it’s too late to rush behind the scenes to grab Billy’s elbow, to guide him to the right stations (the right reporters), be the shadow that makes sure Billy’s on his best behavior. 

He has to watch as Billy turns on his smile and parade down the red carpet. 

Steve, resigned to getting to deal with that firestorm tomorrow, turns inside. 

He gets sat at table 327, far away from the stage and the lights. There’s other band managers and label people he should be buttering up. He’s not in the mood. 

After Diane Ross takes the stage and presenters run through their inane patter of scripted back and forth, Steve knocks back several drinks. 

“‘Scuse me,” he says to his table and walks to the restrooms. He opens the door to hear reverberating moans echoing off tile walls. 

Steve rolls his eyes and pushes in anyway. A day in the life of a music manager. 

It’s a guy and a girl, judging by the deep, perfunctory grunts and high, breathy porno sighs. 

Steve’s washing his hands when they finish, and the stall door bangs open, and Steve sees perfectly in the mirror Tiffany Chaser, Hollywood’s sweetheart giggling, hands on the chest of none other than Billy Hargrove. 

Steve is stunned. 

He shouldn’t be. He sees this all the time. This is not the first time he’s even walked in on Billy having sex, even. 

But it seems sharper in the sober wake of Mac’s death. 

Tiffany gasps, going pale.

Billy turns, sees Steve’s face in the mirror.

“Don’t worry, babe,” he says, jumping up and zipping his pants. “That’s just my manager, Steve.”


	3. Chapter 3

“Thanks for calling K105, who am I talking to?”

“Cindi!”

“Hi Cindi, what can I do for you?”

“I wanna hear ‘Lover’s Game’ by Robin Buckley?”

“Can do! Coming up the charts hot and steady only her second week breaking that top twenty threshold, it’s Robin Buckley with ‘Lover’s Game’. Hey Cindi, who gives you the greatest hits of today?”

“K105!”

— _Charlie Tuna, KDZE 105.5 radio disc jockey, January 30th, 1986_

Tiffany Chaser is nice. 

Billy’s fucked her three times, and that’s more than he can say for his last relationship. He should be showing her the door. 

But she’ll slide him that smirk, pink lips pursed, an eyebrow raised, and Billy wants to go again. 

It’s not his fault he’s sober. It’s not his fault all these L.A. parties are dull as fuck when he’s not 12 bottles deep. It’s not his fault Tiffany’s been promoting lotions on the side, so her skin is silky soft. 

She doesn’t even argue with him, which is great. 

The thing is, he’s not sure why they’re still hanging out. It should be that Billy knows she’s good for a fuck and move on. He’s Billy fucking Hargrove, for Christ’s sake, a rock star. He should be out there getting with every groupie from L.A. to New York, then fly out and start all over again in London. 

He doesn’t. 

The tour doesn’t start until they finish the fucking record, and now that half the band’s been replaced again, it’s gonna be awhile. 

So after they’ve had sex in Whitesnake’s lead singer’s hot tub one Tuesday night, Billy invites her to the studio. 

Tiffany smirks again, starts rocking against him to get him going again, and it works. 

Barb, fucking _Barbara Holland_, frowns when she sees Tiff come into the studio, looking at the instruments, gingerly touching the soundproofing foam on the walls. 

“Jealous, Holland?” Billy sneers.

Barb only rolls her eyes, but keeps shifting weird glances to Tiffany, like Barb was nervous. The fuck would Barb have to be nervous for? Either way, Billy’s keeping Tiffany around today because it’s shutting Holland up. 

When Steve rolls in that morning, sunglasses on, hair higher than usual, lit cigarette already in his twitching fingers, Billy waits for the blow up. 

He hasn’t seen Steve since the AMAs. Since Steve caught the tail end of Billy fucking Tiffany.

Billy’s chest aches, and he scratches his arm. The Burger King he had for lunch must not be sitting right with him. 

Steve looks at them, still just dicking around, and Billy can’t tell what’s going on behind those shades. 

He lifts up the sunglasses and smiles at Tiffany, hand without the smoke already out. “Hi, Steve Harrington,” he says, like he didn’t see her with her panties around her ankle Monday night. 

“Tiffany Chaser,” she says, blushing, and damn she’s a good actress. She shakes his hand lightly. 

“Okay guys… and girls,” Steve quickly amends, “we’ve only got three hours of studio time, let’s make the most of it, okay?” He takes a long drag before blowing the smoke up at the ceiling, long neck bared. “Tiffany, you want to join me in the booth?” he smiles.

“Sure!” she chirps and Billy watches them walk out of the room together. He feels off. 

“Hey,” he whisper-shouts at Tommy, who is not so much tuning his guitar as trying out all his stage poses at Carol like a demented tropical bird. Tommy flexes a bicep, and Carol uselessly picks up a tab from the floor, her breasts [exposed], completing her turn in the dance.

“Hey,” he tries again to Barb, glancing as Steve and Tiffany talk in the booth with Brian and Jonathan. “Can whoppers give you food poisoning?” he asks.

Barb blinks. “If it was real meat, I’d say yes, but…” She taps a stick against the rim softly. “You feel okay?” she asks, face soft. 

“Probably just heart burn,” he says, frowning. He doesn’t need to actually be friends with Barb. She’s the drummer, that’s all. 

He gets up and stands behind his keyboard, ignoring Barb’s scrunched face, waiting for the signal from Brian to start on the track.

Billy is never eating Burger King again. 

The whole fucking three hours in studio was painful. The music was great, they actually laid down two tracks and started on a third. Any other time that would rev Billy up, get his blood pumping like nothing else. 

But every time he’d look into the booth and see Tiffany and Steve chatting, Tiffany picture perfect and Steve smiling brightly his chest would clench. He didn’t like them hanging out. 

It all came to a head when he misses a cue halfway through the third song, and this time Barb of all fucking people, stills her cymbals. “Billy,” she starts, and Billy sees Tommy tense up.

“Don’t start,” Billy growls. 

Barb glares, standing up. “You’ve been off all day, Billy,” she says thinly. 

“I think we’re doing great!” Tommy pipes up, trying to tamp down the fight before it starts.

This just makes Billy even more angry, fuel to the fire. The old Tommy would goad him on, peel off his jacket ready to throw some punches, but Tommy was being gentle, and soft, and that made Billy furious.

He didn’t want to be treated differently. He wants to go back to normal.

“You’ve been here one week, Holland,” Billy snaps, walking around his keyboard to Barb’s set. 

“Yeah, and that’s how I know how shitty your playing is today Billy,” she whips back. 

“Guys,” Steve’s voice comes in over the comm. “Stop.”

Billy glances over at the booth, Steve’s finger still pressed on the button. Tiffany’s perfectly groomed eyebrows pressed together. 

“Fucking make me, Harrington!” Billy shouts. 

The studio erupts, chaos from yelling and shouting, Billy shoving Barb and her throwing her sticks at him, bouncing off the recording booth panes. Tommy swoops in behind him and gets him in a headlock, Billy trying to fight him off by punching whatever he can.

He can hear the girls screaming about something but it’s all a blur, it’s red blood ringing in his ears. 

Tommy suddenly lets go, Billy about to gut punch him when he sees why Tommy let go. 

Steve is there, face twisted in anger, and he grabs Billy by the neck and drags him out into the hall, pushing him out the door and into the parking lot. 

“Why am I being pulled out, she started it!” Billy says, pointing. 

“Because I know you, and you don’t get pissed off for no reason.”

Billy feels like punching a wall. 

“Everything was fine, what the fuck happened.”

“Barb,” Billy spits out immediately. 

“Okay, Barb instigated it, but I don’t think she’s what caused it.” Billy watches as Steve lights up two cigarettes and hands one off to Billy. 

“Bullshit,” Billy bitches. 

“Okay fine,” Steve says, sighing. He leans against the wall, painted an obnoxious pink color, which clashes with his pink polo. “Just smoke a few with me, then,” he says, and Billy paces, cigarette in his mouth. 

“I don’t like her,” Billy says, for what he feels is the thousandth time. 

“Tough shit she just signed a contract,” Steve bats back cooly. “And if you drop her after kicking out Kyle and Robbie you’ll really look like a princess.”

Billy grunts, slams his back against the pink brick a few times to feel something. Tilts his head back to look at the clouds bright white in the afternoon sun. L.A. is beautiful, sometimes. 

“What if we can’t get this record down?” Billy asks quietly. 

“We will,” Steve says, not even putting on the fake reassurance that Billy expects. Just states it like a fact. “We’re getting these tracks down in a month, build up radio play and then we’re on the road in April.”

Billy flicks his cigarette aimlessly into the parking lot, watching the amber tip fade when it hits the ground. 

“Can’t wait,” Billy says. He means it. He loves the road, loves the hotels, even the stupid overnights in the bus. 

“In the meantime,” Steve starts, and Billy groans, because here it comes, “you need to figure out a way to get along with Barb.”

“She’s a fucking bitch,” Billy says, running his hand through his hair, then twisting the curl in the front, making sure it didn’t lose definition. 

“Yeah? So are you,” Steve laughs. “You two have something in common, after all.”

Billy opens his mouth but Steve stops him. 

“I’m serious Billy, you’re the leader, you’ve got to figure it out or April is gonna be a lot shittier than you think.”

“Whatever,” Billy grumbles. Pauses, looking at Steve. “I’m thinking about bringing Tiffany along, what do you think?”

Steve’s face goes blank as he finishes his final drag and throws the butt away. “She’s not my girlfriend,” he says flatly, and then turns to head back to the studio. 

He stops, hand on the door. “She’s nice,” Steve says, voice low and rough. “She could be good for you,” Steve pulls out his wallet, fat with business cards. Pulls out a thin piece of paper with an address and phone number on it. Hands it to Billy. 

Barbara Holland, it reads in purple ink. 

“Yeah,” Billy says, shrugging. It’s … off, this whole conversation, the congenial mood sucked out when he brought up Tiffany. He scratches his chest again, that weird feeling back in full force. Hell, maybe it was love, because he never felt this way before. 

“Be nice,” Steve says, pointing at the paper in Billy’s hand, and opens the door. 

Billy looks at the street number, then the address crumpled in his hand. 

He glares at the door, and presses the button labeled _B. Holland, C. Carter_. 

“Dude are you Billy Hargrove?”

Billy turns where two boys are, one with a skateboard rolling under his foot idly; nervously, and another with a ripped shirt. 

“Yeah,” Billy says, pulling out a cigarette. 

“Man I love Billy and the Boys,” the skateboard kid says. 

“Thanks,” Billy mutters, cupping his hand around the lighter to flick it on, light the cigarette without the wind blowing it out. He jams his finger on the buzzer, pressing it repeatedly.

“What are you doing here? Is there a secret concert at Hooligan’s?”

“Nope,” Billy answers.

There is a rustling from above. “Hey!” someone shouts from above them. It’s Barb, sticking her body out of the window. “What do you want?”

“Piss off Barb, you don’t know who you’re talking to,” ripped shirt yells. 

“Fuck you, Brad!” Barb snaps. 

“Let me in,” Billy shouts, before Barb forgets he’s there. 

“Buzzer’s broke,” Barb explains, and disappears. 

“You’re here to see Holland?” the other kid chimes in. “She’s a grade-A bitch.”

Billy snorts, rolling his eyes. “No argument here,” he says as the door opens. 

“Thanks,” Barb hisses. “Beat it, deadweights,” she says, throwing the bird. She ushers Billy in and then throws the locks again. “The hell are you here for?” Barb asks, stomping up the stairs, not waiting for an answer. 

“Steve demands we make amends,” Billy says, following.

“Guess I shouldn’t be surprised,” Barb mutters before reaching a door and digging out her keys.

Billy takes a few drags; catches his breath. 

Barb shoulders the door open and gestures Billy in. 

Billy knows it’s a shitty apartment. Hell, he’s lived in his fair share of them. But it’s sparse, a drum kit crammed in the corner with an ancient amp and Carol’s shiny purple guitar. 

“Carol here?” Billy asks. 

“Carol is probably sucking face with Tommy,” Barb drawls. “Want water, or a beer?”

“Sober,” Billy says in lieu of an answer. He’s still taking in the apartment, couch clearly from twenty years ago, stained shag carpet, paneled walls.

In the corner is a surfboard, yellow and light blue. Freshly waxed, from the looks of it. “You surf?” he asks, pointing.

Barb nods, arms crossed. 

Billy clears his throat, scratches his neck, and looks at her. “Look we’re obviously trying to just appease Steve.”

“Yeah I was told to play nice,” Barb mutters.

“So why don’t you grab your board and we’ll head to mine, we’ll catch some waves and just tell him we talked it out.”

Barb bites her lip. “Yeah,” she nods, a smile playing at the corner of her lips. “Let’s go.”

Billy strapped Barb’s board to the top of his Jeep, thankful that he brought it instead of the Camaro this time, and they drive in silence to Billy’s place.

Billy forgets sometimes, that he’s living in a mansion, a huge beach house with all the amenities, but then seeing Barb’s jaw drop when he pulls up to the gate reminds him. 

Barb’s already in her wetsuit, and Billy opens the back door gate to the private beach, and she’s already whooping and running out to the shore. 

Billy rushes to get his rashguard on and favorite board out, feeling the past few weeks sluice off him as he dives past the breakers and gets up to paddle out to the waves.

They’re big today, huge waves like he hasn’t seen in a while, months, maybe, and the routine of getting on the board and paddling til he reaches the swell of the wave, popping up to ride the curl as long as he can or crashing, it all feels good. 

It feels like it did before Mack died, hell, before he and the boys made it big, just a yearning for the ocean and what it gives, six or seven feet, bigger, riding it out to the breakers and swimming back out again. 

The sky turns yellow and pink and Billy sits on his board, watching the setting sun, feeling the salt on his skin dry while his feet become wrinkly in the water. 

Barb paddles up to him, floats near him in the lull near the sandbar, watches the sun set. 

“Should go in soon,” Billy says, not wanting to, but also not wanting sharks to bite his legs off. 

“Yeah,” Barb replies, not making any moves to the shore either. Barb sighs, spreads her fingers over the patter of her board. “Sorry I’ve been so bitchy lately,” she says.

Billy shrugs. “I’ve been pretty bitchy too,” he admits. 

Barb nods, but doesn’t say anything else. “It’s a lot to get used to,” she says quietly. “It seems unreal, cause it just happened overnight.”

“Steve said you’d been playing in bars for a couple years.”

“Yeah, and now, I mean, if I can stay, I could have a place like that.” She thumbs back to Billy’s beach house. 

“I mean,” Billy rolls his eyes, “if you’ve been playing for years it didn’t happen overnight. It’s been building up to this.”

Barb nods. “Thanks.”

“Seriously, don’t mention it,” Billy scoffs, and Barb laughs. 

They paddle back to shore in silence, and Billy feels okay about today, about Barb. Kind of. 

Barb towels off and starts to bring her board back, but Billy stops her. “Just leave it here, gates are always closed, no one’s gonna steal it.”

He means to offer that she can come and surf whenever she wants, but her smile says she’s picked up on his not too subtle offer. 

“Thanks,” she says. “Means I won’t have to move it out of the apartment.”

“Yeah,” Billy says, leading her back to the Jeep. “But I’m not keeping your couch for you.”

Barb laughs, bright and bubbly. 


End file.
